


Holy Dimensional Gateway, Batman!

by Spidergwenstefani



Category: DCU (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crossover, M/M, More characters to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-08-20 12:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16556072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spidergwenstefani/pseuds/Spidergwenstefani
Summary: “I am darkness,” the shadow says, voice rumbling through the cave in a way that Clint thinks might be ominous if it weren’t filtered into static by his hearing aids. “I am the night.”“Yeah, and I’m clearly from another fucking universe, so if you’re trying to intimidate me you’re going to have to add more context."AKA Clint gets dragged through a hole in space and lands in a universe that’s dark, violent, and… not entirely unfamiliar. It’s populated with a whole kooky cast of masked vigilantes, which sucks because Clint just wants to get home. Bucky just wants to stop making dumbass decisions, like diving into a wormhole to save his crush.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was a DC stan waaaay before I got into Marvel so if you read this and assume I hate DC and never read their comics, you're half right.
> 
> also, this probably won't be updated very regularly because of who I am as a person. I do have a full plot outline and some solid drafts of two more chapters tho, so fingers crossed ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

_The future has a way of surprising you_ , Bucky thinks as he stares out into the blackness of space. He allows himself a small smile that it’s Steve’s voice saying the words in his head because Bucky was doing a little more than sleeping during the seventy-year gap. It took Steve a while to realize that Bucky wouldn’t be bamboozled by the fucking coffee machine, that the years in between are just blood-splattered snapshots in his mind, but yeah, Steve, he noticed cassette tapes.

Still, his memories from HYDRA are patchy at best, and Bucky doubts that watching the moon landing on TV would have come anywhere close to preparing him for actually being up among the stars, drifting through the void in an impossibly thin Stark-branded prototype space suit. It’s awesome, in the oldest sense of the word. It’s terrifying, only a few layers of metal between him and imminent death, but it’s a kind of terrifying that envelops you like a soft blanket and almost starts to feel safe.

“I hate space,” Clint grunts out next to him through gritted teeth. Bucky turns enough in his harness to watch Clint, eyes shut tight and knuckles white against the edge of his seat, and maybe the siren song of the cold expanse has made him a little poetic, but he thinks there’s some kind of a simile there. Clint’s like space a little bit. Ever-present, easy to get lost in. Terrifying, but only because he makes Bucky feel so safe. Beautiful.

“God, can you get space-sick? I don’t want to know what happens if I puke in zero-g.”

Alright, so it’s not a perfect metaphor.

“Robin Hood, if you puke in my ship I’m chucking you out the airlock,” Tony calls from the pilot’s seat. Clint clenches his jaw and groans.

“Why am I here? Nobody even knows how arrows work in space. I’m not enhanced. I’m soft. One wrong hit and I get vacuumed out of this thing and liquified into meat jelly.”

“Obviously we brought you for morale,” Steve answers from his seat next to Tony.

“And the scientific inaccuracies. It adds charm. Like we’re in a movie,” Tony contributes. “By the way, I’m not even going to _touch_ all the problems with what you’ve just said, but I am absolutely having JARVIS replay them for Bruce when we get back.”

“Also, the SHIELD station has artificial gravity, so arrows will work just fine,” Steve says, pointing through the disturbingly large windows to the giant donut they’re steadily approaching. The station is big and white, glowing bright against the pitch black.

“Putting me in a giant spinning loop is _not_ gonna solve the problem, Cap. I do my best work where the air isn’t canned.”

Bucky wishes the harnesses weren’t so restrictive. He’d give Clint a reassuring shoulder bump, maybe nudge him with an elbow like he does when their eyes catch before a big mission. But the way Stark has them strapped in means it’s mostly just forearms that are free, and even if Clint _has_ been returning his flirting a little more lately, he doubts a pat on the inner thigh is particularly welcome right now.

“Why isn’t Thor on this mission? Dimensional portals are totally his thing, right?” Clint lets his head thump back against the seat, eyes still tightly shut. Bucky finds his gaze drawn to the lines of his neck.

“Thor’s fighting style isn’t very… containable,” Steve says. “We don’t want to cause too much damage.”

“You mean we don’t want to punch a death-hole in the tissue paper hell-donut,” Clint whines. “Only SHIELD would build a research station around a newly discovered dimensional portal without checking to see if anything could come out of it. This is my last mission. I’m going to fucking retire. Go live on a farm or something. Somewhere with a lot of ground.”

“You say that every other mission,” Bucky says, not bothering to hide the smile in his voice. Clint actually cracks his eyes open at that, giving Bucky a half-hearted glare.

“The portal was stable when they built the station,” Tony says, maneuvering them around to the docking bay and flipping a dizzying amount of switches as the ship glides into place. “It’s only recently that things have started coming out. _My_ theory is that the connection to the other side has frayed. It’s not a door that only opens to one room anymore.”

“Awesome,” Clint says weakly, and the ship settles into the port with a mechanical _thunk_.

>>==========>

The space station isn’t nearly as cool as the spaceship, Bucky decides. There’s no windows, and Clint’s kind of right about the artificial gravity being disconcerting. He’s not even upset when an alarm goes off, painting the cold plastic walls a startling red and making them skip the grand tour. The SHIELD astronaut that helped them out of the docking bay seems a little concerned, however. She jogs ahead of them, unholstering some kind of stun baton, which must be the only SHIELD weapon trusted in a place like this. Bucky would be concerned too, having to face the possible horrors of the universe with something that’s barely a step up from a taser. It had been a hell of a time for him to convince Steve and Tony to allow him a sniper rifle, conceding that he wouldn’t use it unless he ended up on the wrong side of the gateway.

“We’ve had things coming through more and more often,” she says as they near a sealed door, warnings plastered across it in glossy red. “There was almost four months between the first visitors and the second. Now it’s every few weeks. Our last batch was only six days ago.”

“Are there any similarities between the creatures? Patterns, maybe?” Tony asks, with what Bucky thinks is too much excitement. At least he closes the helmet on his suit, not too starry-eyed with the prospect of alien lifeforms to remember the situation at hand.

“Not exactly, although the ones that breathe oxygen best seem to come through in groups. Most of them end up asphyxiating before they can do too much damage. That’s what the last ones did.”

“So they come in clusters that breathe similar atmospheres?” Tony hasn’t reduced himself to scientific babble yet, although Bucky can sense he’s close. “It might be opening up to a few gateways on each planet. Maybe the link up is affected by gravitational pull or solar radiation.” Yep, there it is.

The astronaut keys in a code, stun baton held at the ready as the doors slide open.

“What the hell?” Bucky says, ducking as a thick vine immediately whips toward them. He blocks it with his left arm on autopilot, and Clint pins the thickest part of it to the doorway with a quick shot. Their eyes meet and Bucky manages a nod of thanks before another one of the freaky vine tendrils slithering out of the dimensional gateway tries to sweep his feet out from under him.

The gateway itself is kind of hard to look at, like it doesn’t interact with light the way a solid object should. There’s definitely edges, although Bucky doubts he could point them out if asked, and it only seems to open on one side, letting the vine monster tentacles straight out into the center of the room.

Tony keeps his repulsor blasts to a minimum, waiting until he’s got a vine closed in his hand to let one loose, and Steve does more hacking with his shield than throwing. They make short work of the thing, considering none of them know what the hell it is. The floor is littered with gently smoking, slightly wriggling vine chunks by the time the thing gives up, if it’s sentient enough to understand surrender. The rest of the vines slither back into the void, and as Bucky watches, the not-quite-edges seem to fold in on themselves, shrinking down to a pinprick of black before shooting back out into the giant circular portal it was moments ago, this time sans plant-tentacles.

“Cool. We’re done with space. Let’s go home,” Clint says, rubbing his wrist where the woody bark of a vine seems to have scraped it. Tony ignores him, circling the gateway like a cat presented with a new toy.

“That’s _fascinating_ _._ This side of the gateway isn’t static. It’s like a whole new portal that’s just opened up in the same spot.”

“Yeah, fascinating. Let’s go back to Earth and tell some scientists all about it,” Clint says, the hope dying from his voice as Tony reaches cautiously for the edges of the gateway.

“Not so fast, Legolas. We don’t leave until the portal is closed for good, and we’ve still got about a million tests to run on this thing before I’ll even begin to know how to do that.”

“I hate space,” Clint says petulantly, kicking at a particularly large coil of the slightly spasming vine.

Bucky barely has time to blink before the vine grabs a hold of Clint’s leg, the severed end shooting straight for the gateway and pulling Clint along with it.

“Fuck,” Clint manages, and Bucky lunges for him, almost getting a grip on Clint’s forearm before he slips away, him and the vine sucked into the giant gap in space without so much as a ripple.

“ _Clint_ ,” Bucky shouts, the sound of it not reaching his ears. He moves automatically, barely registering Steve’s warnings, every noise suddenly far away, like he’s under water. He’s jumped feet-first into the gateway before he even has time to think.

>>==========>

>>==========>

>>==========>

Clint hates space.

It comes with an unease that settles into the very bones of him, makes him feel like he’s off balance at his innermost core, farther out than he was ever meant to go. Artificial gravity doesn’t do much to help. He still feels the wrongness with senses he never knew he had.

So when he comes out the other side of the doorway, the fact that he’s no longer in space registers before anything else. The tug of real, Earth-strength gravity settles his nerves before he’s even noticed that he’s too high up in the atmosphere to see anything but stormy grey clouds, and falling like a stone.

Clint’s never been inside a cloud before, but the charm wears off quick as the puffs of foggy grey drench him to his core on his way down. At least he’s still got his bow in his hand, and his quiver on his back. He gives the alien vine around his ankle an angry kick, but the thing already relaxed its hold the moment they came out the other side, and it slithers off more than willingly, plummeting out of sight.

Then suddenly the clouds are gone, and a rickety roof is rushing up to meet Clint, looking like some kind of dilapidated train that got it’s directions all turned around. Clint has time to turn shoulder-first against the oncoming building, and almost enough time to wonder what it says about his life that falling through a roof is a welcome experience after the violent emptiness of space.

The rooftop splinters immediately on impact, as does the attic floor, and the next floor, too. He plummets into some kind of dusty couch with enough impact to snap the thing, but the floorboards beneath hold fast. Some part of Clint’s brain manages to register that the building looks decrepit and abandoned, enough that he’s surprised to see about six guns pointed at his face when the dust clears.

“Who the fuck are you?” A voice spits out, and Clint follows the barrel of the gun directly in front of his nose to find the speaker. The guy is human, at least by every way Clint knows to check, and his friends are too. He’s not dressed _exactly_ like a 1930’s gangster, but he’s sure dressed like he grew up admiring them. He’s got a nasty sneer and an accent that’s so deep New York, Clint might laugh if he hadn’t just had all the wind knocked out of him. He wraps his fingers tighter around his bow, which, through a combination of being cradled protectively during the fall and being made out of a fucking adamantium alloy, seems to have survived unscathed.

“Woah,” he manages to cough out through the dust. “You look like an asshole.”

The guy shifts his weight, finger tightening on the trigger, but Clint’s already rolled off the former couch and pinned one of the other goon’s wrists to the wall by the time Asshole manages to get a round off into the couch cushions. The goose feathers that erupt from the pillows do add a nice ambiance to the fight, though, and Clint takes down two more guys while Asshole chokes on one of them. One of the gangsters gets a shot out, putting a few holes in the drywall before Clint gets him through the shoulder. He knocks the fifth guy out with a blow to the head, just in time to shoot the gun out of Asshole’s hand and pin it to the far wall. Asshole lunges for him but ends up tripping over a floorboard Clint must have brought with him. He goes down hard, and Clint plants his boot on Asshole’s chest, drawing an arrow and letting the tip hover directly over his forehead. Asshole almost goes cross-eyed trying to look at it.

“Are you Green fucking Arrow?”

“Do I look like Green Fucking Arrow?” Clint spits out, going out on a limb and guessing Green Fucking Arrow’s signature color isn’t purple.

“Who do you work for? Penguin? Scarecrow? Bats?”

Clint weighs his options, because he’s getting the impending sense that he’s not in Kansas anymore, and this guy might have some information on what kind of gritty noir universe he’s crashed into. On the other hand, he can’t even begin to parse through the words that just came out of Asshole’s mouth, and he’s starting to feel a post-space-travel headache coming on. Maybe he can look for answers later. After a nap.

He only manages to lower his bow by a fraction of an inch before someone else makes the call for him. Something heavy hits Clint in the back of the head, hard, and the whole world crumbles into darkness.

>>==========>

Clint wakes up to a blinding spotlight shining directly into his eyes. His arms are strapped down to something that feels like a chair, and the way his aids are picking up on sounds tells him that the background noises are off here. Too echoey, maybe.

His eyes adjust slowly, and he can’t see far past the column of light trained on him, but wherever he is seems cavernous. The air is damp and cold, and Clint swears the shadows up above look like stalactites. Or stalagmites. He’s never figured out which is which. His mouth feels like sandpaper, and he’s got a headache that feels more like it’s brought on by a concussion than space travel. A true connoisseur like him can tell the difference.

There’s movement on the edge of his vision, and Clint manages to follow the shape of a shadow, lurking just on the edges of the darkness. His aids don’t do so great with low noises, but Clint’s pretty sure the thing isn’t making any sound as it glides across the cave floor.

“Who are you?” a voice echoes out, low and fucking chilling. It makes Clint’s throat hurt just to listen to it. It sounds demonic, like the shadow’s been gargling glass shards instead of Listerine. Fuck, it sounds like Thor with the flu.

“Nobody important,” Clint says, and his own voice doesn’t sound too great either. He’d kill for a glass of water right now. It might come to that. The shadow doesn’t seem like it’d be easily swayed by asking nicely. “Who are you?”

“You don’t know who I am?” the shadow growls.

“I don’t know if you were there, but I fell from the sky a little bit,” Clint says. “I’m not from around here.”

“I am darkness,” the shadow says, voice rumbling through the cave in a way that Clint thinks might be ominous if it weren’t filtered into static by his hearing aids. “I am the night.”

“Yeah, and I’m clearly from another fucking universe, so if you’re trying to intimidate me you’re going to have to add more context.”

He feels the shadow approach more than sees, and Clint thanks whatever gods rule over this grimdark universe that Natasha isn’t here to see the shiver that runs down his spine as a figure materializes out of the blackness.

“I’m Batman,” it says, and even with the gravelly voice fuzzed to shit through his hearing aids, Clint gets the sense that this should be all the context he needs. Batman is- well Batman’s kind of a nightmare. His costume is all shadows and odd edges and he seems to shift between phantom and solid even as Clint watches him step further into the light, although that might just be his concussion settling in. The whole outfit sparks a memory through his haze of disorientation. It looks like the joke costume Bucky talked Steve into submitting when the Avengers PR team was pushing for a Winter Soldier rebranding. One look at the nightmare grimace mask and tattered cape and the costume department had clammed right up, although Steve wasn’t too happy about the extra therapy hours they had enforced after seeing such a dark glimpse into the psyche of Captain America.

“You don’t seem impressed,” Batman rumbles, looming in closer. Clint realizes he’s grinning like some kind of psycho and shoves the memory back down. Probably better not to piss off some kind of demonic creature within a day of entering its universe.

“No, sorry, you’re very impressive. I was just thinking of something else. You remind me of someone.”

That… actually seems to throw Batman off. He looms backward, and Clint’s mind clears enough to realize that he’s less demon-cloaked-in-shadow and more human-cloaked-in-cape.

“What are you doing in Gotham?” Batman rumbles, and that’s somewhat of a relief. Clint had been hoping the glimpse of crumbling skyline he got wasn’t some horrific version of New York in shambles.

“That’s a really long story. And I’ll pass out before I finish it, so you should probably untie me.” Clint coughs for effect. Batman seems unphased.

“What were you doing in one of the Falcone hideouts?” Anger seems to rush back into his voice with the question, and Clint shrinks back against the chair a little.

“Woah. _Woah_. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, alright? Your friends greeted me with some guns to the face so I reacted in self-defense. I didn’t have any sort of agenda, I swear.” Except he sort of did. Alternate universe or not, Clint knows bad when he sees it, and Asshole and his friends reeked of malintent. Batman definitely registers on the scale as well.

Batman falls silent at that, although Clint can practically see the rage curling off him like smoke. He gets a sudden pang of loneliness in his chest. He wishes Bucky was here. He makes the anger look a lot sexier.

“So you don’t know the Falcones?”

“I don’t know _you_ , you think I know them? I told you, I’m not from this hell of a universe. I fell through a fucking gateway in space and landed here. All I want to do is get home.”

Batman looms contemplatively.

“It would be very, very stupid to try anything,” he rumbles carefully. Clint holds back an eye roll.

“Yeah, I’m picking up on that.”

Batman reaches out a clawed, no, _gloved_ hand, pushing down a button. The restraints keeping Clint to the chair fall open with a mechanical hiss, and he gingerly rubs at his wrists.

“So, when you kidnapped me out of an abandoned building, you didn’t happen to pick up my bow, did you?” He looks up hopefully, sighing as he’s met with an unrelenting scowl. “Yeah, alright. Just thought I’d ask.” Clint slides off the chair, keeping his movements open and cautious. Once he’s out of the interrogation spotlight, his eyes adjust to the cave much quicker. Clint’s mouth falls open as he stares into the depths of the cavern.

“Fucking Christ, what are you, Victor Von Doom? How many gadgets can a supervillain possibly need?”

“I’m not a supervillain,” Batman growls, sounding almost offended. Clint blinks, and his eyes fall on something behind his darkly shrouded shoulders. There’s a display case. Well, a row of display cases. Most of them are full of haunting iterations of Batman’s current costume, but Clint’s eyes catch on the brighter ones. Red, green, yellow, and purple spandex glint back at him through the gloom.

“Well, fuck me. Are you a good guy?”

>>==========>

>>==========>

>>==========>

The blackness of the portal gives way to bright blue skies and a sparkling metropolis. The first thing Bucky notices is that Clint isn’t below him. There’s no flailing dumbass hurtling towards the ground, and no black and purple smear on the pavement below, which is almost upsettingly spotless. The glimpse Bucky gets of his surroundings as he hurdles downwards feels like a creepy utopian image of New York, all the litter and grime and graffiti and _heart_ scrubbed spotless and gleaming. He allows himself a little smug satisfaction as he drops past a skyscraper and punches his hand into the brick to slow his descent.

There’s an explosion from above, and Bucky looks up to see the other side of the gateway still gaping out against the clear blue sky, two figures racing up toward it.

One of the flying figures looks like some hideous green version of the hulkbuster suit, but with a crackling cannon-like device strapped to its back. The second figure is a blue and red streak against the sky, its goal clearly being to impede the green monstrosity from reaching the gateway.

There’s a crowd gathering in the plaza below, and Bucky’s destructive descent doesn’t get half a glance from the people with their necks craned up to the sky. Another explosion sounds off, and a chunk of the green suit comes hurtling downward, heading toward a cluster of onlookers on the edge of the plaza. Bucky wonders if this twilight zone New York is some kind of haven for fucked up villains. It sure _looks_ like it. He isn’t sure anyone who would willingly live in a place like this is worth saving. But his legs don’t seem to care, and his arm certainly doesn’t hesitate as he rips the front panel off of a mailbox and jumps in front of two kids that are too scared to move, using the metal sheet to deflect the smoking debris.

“Get back,” he growls, and the kids scream and stumble backward, clearing the area in time as the green hulkbuster falls from the sky like a stone, the blue streak racing after it. Bucky retreats as well, although not as far as the rest of the crowd. The blue streak catches the hulkbuster about twenty feet off the ground. Bucky unstraps his sniper rifle from his back, because he’s just realized that the blue streak is shaped like a man, and he’s not about to let his guard down on any man that can lift a thing like that with one hand.

A guy tumbles out of the hulkbuster, dropping to the ground and scrambling away as Blue drops the empty shell with a pavement-cracking _thump_. The crowd behind him cheers, all eyes on Blue, and naturally misses the second guy pulling out some weird blaster that looks like something a Flash Gordon villain would use. He aims the sci-fi blaster at the crowd, and cheers turn to screams.

“Stay back, Superman,” the guy calls, the sun glinting off his bald head. “Or the whole crowd gets it.”

Bucky isn’t sure if this is some kind of elaborately immersive live theater, or if he’s just ended up in a universe modeled after Saturday morning cartoons. Either way, baldy doesn’t seem to notice as Bucky puts him in his scopes.

“Not so fast, Luthor,” Blue, _Superman_ , calls back. “Think about what you’re doing.”

“Oh, I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about it long and- AAGH” Bucky’s bullet goes clean through Luthor’s arm, sending the blaster spinning away and giving Superman the opening to scoop the guy up by the back of his shirt. Bucky can’t see any reason the guy can fly like that, but that doesn’t seem to stop him from hovering a triumphant ten feet above the crowd.

“Evil never prospers, Luthor. You’re headed straight for Stryker’s Island.”

The two of them disappear in a blur of blue.

Bucky needs a drink. He thinks about his odds of finding a satisfyingly seedy bar in a shiny place like this and decides he needs more than one. The approaching police sirens suggest he find himself a few bottles.

He ducks into an alley as the crowd disperses, cursing whatever absolute sociopath of a city planner made these alleys so wide open and well lit. He considers chucking the domino mask and weapon in a dumpster but decides there’s not much point when he still has a metal arm and is clad head to toe in combat gear and leather. He doesn’t even make it out the other end of the alley before there’s a flash of blue and he finds himself staring into the very intense glare of Superman himself.

“You’re not a civilian,” Superman booms, apparently not caring if the police find them or not. His fights must end in a lot less paperwork than Bucky’s tend to.

“No,” he agrees.

“What are you doing in Metropolis?” Superman raises his chin challengingly, showing off a heroic jawline and a stubborn glare that’s uncomfortably familiar. Bucky bites back a laugh because of course this hell hole is called fucking Metropolis. Instead, he holds his hands up placatingly, although the effect might be ruined some by the gun still in his hands.

“I’m looking for a friend.”

“And you thought the best way to find him was to go jumping through portals and tearing up buildings?”

“There was only one portal, really, and it’s not like we went through on purpose.” That’s half a lie, but Superman doesn’t seem to notice. “He should’ve come through right before me. Or maybe a while before. I don’t pretend to know anything about traveling through universes. His name’s Clint Barton. Tall, blond. Wears purple, shoots arrows. I think you’d know him if you saw him.”

“That portal opened up only a second before you came through,” Superman says, and he actually seems apologetic about it. “The only reason Luthor was heading for it is because he’s been studying interdimensional rifts for months. If your friend had come through, I would’ve seen him.”

“Figures he’d fuck it up like this,” Bucky mutters to himself, holstering his weapon. “That’s the last time I let my guard down around a fucking sentient vine.”

“Sentient vine?” Superman actually perks up at that, and Bucky raises a brow.

“Yeah, it pulled him in. Sound familiar?”

Superman beams at him, and Bucky resists the urge to punch him right in the gleaming teeth.

“I don’t know where your friend is, but I know someone who might.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took like... two? Two months for me to put up another chapter. Hopefully chapter 3 will go quicker. Anyways here's some batfam and a lil bit of Green Arrow. Also I'm not even sure if I'm writing MCU or comics Bucky at this point, but the whole contrast of DC's rampant child sidekicks and Marvel's solemn 'we don't do child sidekicks because Captain America tried once and it went Very Wrong" was super interesting to me so I kind of pulled the comics Bucky backstory out.
> 
> Also I stopped actively reading DC comics a while ago, so Damian, Duke, etc. aren't in this because i really just don't know much about them. Jason might show up in a later chapter bc I think he and Bucky would get along like a house on fire.

The klaxon is still blaring, red lights flashing and a swarm of SHIELD scientists scrambling to assess the damage done to their base. Tony, for his part, is doing an astounding job of staring blankly at the newly rearranged portal and moving out of exactly nobody’s way.

“So,” he says, glancing sideways at Steve. “Was it just me, or did the portal kind of fold in on itself when Barnes dove through it?”

“It did,” Steve says, his jaw set in the patriotic way that it does when he dissociates from reality. Behind him, one of the scientists gently unpins a shriveled vine from the wall, letting the arrow clatter to the floor.

“So,” Tony says, slowly. It’s not that he’s still processing what’s happened, it’s just that he’d prefer to delay saying it out loud for as long as possible. “Barnes, um. He might not be in the same place as Barton. Right?”

“Right.” The unflinching void of space has nothing on the empty expression Steve’s wearing right now.

“Maybe he’s, um. Not even in the same time. And. And, the portal rearranged itself _again_ after he went through, so…” Steve hasn’t blinked for a while, and Tony’s starting to get a little nervous about the state of his remaining teammate as well.

“So.”

“So, well. So, _fuck._ ”

“Fuck,” Steve echoes.

>>==========>

>>==========>

>>==========>

“I want you to know,” Bucky shouts over the roaring wind, “If any pictures of this get back to my universe, I will actually shoot you.”

Superman just laughs, continuing his scientifically impossible flight towards their undisclosed location. He has his arms hooked under Bucky’s armpits, and while Superman seems to be tiring not a bit, Bucky’s having a hell of a time not sliding out of his grip. He’s self-aware enough to know what an idiot he looks like. He feels like a toddler trying to splash his way through a kiddy pool with nothing but those dumb arm floaties on. If Clint were here, he’d probably make another stupid comparison to that one Angry Cat or whatever. Bucky considers, for all of two seconds, telling him about it once they find him.

“Not to throw a wrench in your plans or anything, but I’m kind of indestructible.”

“Nothing’s indestructible, buddy,” Bucky says, trying to pull himself up just a little, but really only managing to kick around like a petulant child. “And for a guy that claims to be, you’re kind of slow.”

“Well,” Superman says, his voice still pleasant and cheery, “if I was flying at full speed, your brain might actually liquify.” His grip suddenly becomes a hell of a lot tighter, and Bucky feels very much like a puppy that’s been grabbed by the scruff of the neck. “Also, I don’t entirely trust you. I certainly don’t trust you enough to just drop you off at a friend’s door without spending a little time getting to know you first.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, because Superman has a grip of steel and it actually kind of hurts. “Lunch date?”

There’s a sudden flash from the ground below, and Superman stops short as an ear-splitting boom makes its way to them.

“There’s a great diner in Star City.”

“You’re buying,” Bucky says. Or, _tries_ to say, because suddenly Superman is barrelling down through the clouds and it’s all Bucky can do not to pass out.

He’s never seen Star City on a normal day, but he assumes there’s usually less general carnage and debris. Shards of shrapnel litter the section of highway Superman touches down on, and a lot of the piles of junk are still smoking from the recent explosion.

“How nice of you to join us,” someone says with a sinister sneer, and Bucky turns to find himself directly in the middle of a stand-off.

On one side of the highway, there’s a guy in a blue and orange body suit, the eyes of his mask and the sword strapped to his back pinging something familiar in Bucky’s head. He’s got some kind of tricked out semi-automatic in his hands and seems ready to shoot right through Bucky to get to the other guy.

The other guy, who’s got a bow and arrow, drawn and ready.

It’s not Clint. Bucky knows in an instant it’s not Clint. This guy is wearing green, a hood and domino mask helping to obscure his face. Even past the costume, his stance is different. When Clint draws his bow, he’s a study in serenity. Bucky knows for a fact his bow of preference has got a draw weight of two hundred and fifty pounds, but the strain doesn’t show. When Clint’s got a target in his sights, he might as well be made of stone. Nothing can touch him when he’s got an arrow at the ready, and the set of his shoulders says he knows it.

This guy? This guy looks almost feral, like a tiger ready to pounce. He’s on the attack and defense all at once, and maybe his form matches Clint’s in any technical measurement, but where Hawkeye is all tranquility, all patient tension, this guy is carefully channeled rage.

Superman is gone.

Bucky was so caught up in taking in the scene that he almost didn’t realize the big blue guy dropped down in the middle of the standoff and disappeared before anyone could blink. He catches sight of a blue blur on the edges of the battlefield, pulling back any civilians that haven’t already made a run for it, dousing fires that are spreading dangerously close to abandoned vehicles. Bucky wishes Superman could’ve at least pointed out the bad guy before fucking right off, because now he’s stuck between bizarro-world versions of Hawkeye and Deadpool with no background information whatsoever.

“Look, Robocop. Either make a move or get out of the way,” Robin Hood says, and Bucky hopes he hasn’t ended up in a universe where Tony Stark is blond and has even worse facial hair.

“Even a fancy arm like that won’t do much to stop a bullet,” Not-Deadpool says, which makes Bucky’s mouth quirk up just a bit.

“I’m trying,” he says, raising his arms slowly in a hopefully multiversal gesture, “to figure out exactly whose side I should be on here.” Nobody relaxes, but Robin Hood at least makes a short sort of snort.

“Well, I _am_ Green Arrow, Hero and Protector of Star City. If you can’t pick between that and ‘Deathstroke the Terminator,’ I’m not sure I want you on my side anyway.”

Bucky turns to Deathstroke then, doing his best not to expose any weak points to either of them. “Deathstroke” is no “Deadpool,” but he figures it’s close enough to stake a guess on.

“You got a counterpoint, Wilson?”

Deathstroke doesn’t falter, doesn’t fumble with his gun or relax his stance, but the last name catches him by surprise, and Bucky only needs a split second of hesitation to draw his weapon. The bullet goes clean through Deathstroke’s shoulder, hitting at the same time as an arrow latches onto his gun, blowing the thing to pieces with the force of a small grenade.

Whatever knockoff brand Deadpool this guy is, not knowing when to quit seems to be Wade Wilson’s universal constant. He draws his sword, charging at Bucky with a speed that’s definitely enhanced. Bucky blocks the blow with his left arm, and the clashing metals send a supernatural _clang_ through the air like a shock wave.

“What-” Deathstroke starts to say, and Bucky goes straight for the Ka-Bar on his belt. He aims a stab at Deathstroke’s side, but whatever’s in the guy’s body armor makes the blade glance off harmlessly. Deathstroke tries again with the sword, aiming a slash at Bucky’s thigh that he just barely dodges.

“Well,” Bucky hears Green Arrow shout from the sidelines, “I’m not gonna lie. I’m a little turned on right now.”

“There’s room for a third,” Bucky says through gritted teeth, ducking as Deathstroke gets a solid swing. His blade sings as it cuts through the air, and Bucky doesn’t want to know what kind of vibranium clusterfuck of an alloy the thing is made of. He drops lower, trying to knock Deathstroke off his feet by sweeping his legs, but he just sidesteps like telegraphing his movements is ever a thing Bucky’s been accused of.

Three arrows go whistling past Bucky’s head in rapid succession, but only one manages to nick Deathstroke’s shoulder, more of a papercut than anything else. It’s not for lack of trying. Green Arrow’s aim is true, but Deathstroke seems to dodge the arrows before they’re even loosed.

“Nice try, Emerald Archer,” Deathstroke sneers, and his next swing actually scrapes against Bucky’s arm before glancing off, the reverb sounding like some hellish version of nails on a chalkboard. “I know where those arrows will be before you do.”

Huh. That changes things. Bucky was thinking telepathy, but if this guy is just using some limited form of precognition, _that’s_ something Bucky can work with.

“What about this knife?” Bucky says, just to draw Deathstroke’s attention back to him. He leads with the Ka-Bar in his right hand, swinging for the face. Deathstroke dodges easily, and if Bucky had to pick a counter move, he’d go for a sucker punch. He ducks before Deathstroke can even finish drawing back his fist, activating the retractable knife in his left arm and slicing at Deathstroke’s thigh. The body armor is lighter in his legs, and the knife cuts deep. Deathstroke lets out a shout, stumbling back. His rhythm is thrown enough for Green Arrow to let loose another explosive arrow, and the impact sends Bucky skidding back on the asphalt.

Deathstroke is gone when the smoke clears, which is a shame because Bucky was just getting into having a worthy opponent. He hears Green Arrow swear behind him, like that’s the end of that, and Bucky hasn’t taken half a step toward the vacant side of the highway before Superman is suddenly blocking his path. He’s radiating ‘disappointed mom’ in waves and the fact that his feet aren’t touching the ground does nothing to tone down the intimidation as he towers over Bucky.

“Well,” he says, squinting down at Bucky and pressing his lips into a flat line. “I’d be interested in knowing how someone from another universe knows the identity of one of our world’s deadliest mercenaries.”

He should probably be shitting his pants right now. Bucky’s getting the sense that Superman isn’t quite human, and beyond faster-than-light speed and a seemingly unlimited amount of strength, he’s still not sure what Superman meant when he called himself “indestructible”. Unfortunately, his intimidation technique seems more based on scolding than actual threats, and Bucky Barnes had to face down Captain America’s “disappointed in you” talk back when he was a teenager.

“There’s a Wade Wilson in my universe too,” he says, not even trying to act nervous. “The codename and the costume aren’t exactly the same, but I only needed him to let his guard down for a second.”

“Well, good work,” Green Arrow chimes in, and Bucky turns to see him counting the arrows left in his quiver. Apparently being escorted by Superman is enough of a character reference in this universe, because Green Arrow’s bow is strapped to his back instead of held at the ready. “ _Slade_ Wilson doesn’t let his guard down for almost anything.”

“Huh. That makes a couple more differences between him and the guy I know.”

“I’d like to hear more about the differences in your universe,” Superman says, a note of suspicion still in his voice. “I believe we had plans for lunch?”

“Cheeseburgers are on me,” Green Arrow says.

>>==========>

>>==========>

>>==========>

Batman, it turns out, is a lot more friendly when you’re on the same side.

Well, friendly is relative, but Clint thinks the provided Advil and glass of water have to count for something. He perches on the ledge next to Batman’s ominously gigantic supercomputer and wonders what it says about his life that the Venn diagram of people who have tied him up for interrogation and people who he considers his closest allies has a lot of overlap.

“Start talking,” Batman orders, his eerily pointed gloves clacking against the keyboard. “I want to know exactly how much our universes match up.” He pauses, turning towards him, and Clint gets the sense that he’s being scanned through the opaque eyeholes of the mask. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Oliver Queen, would it?”

“Nope,” Clint says, rubbing absentmindedly at his still sore wrist. “Try Barton, Clinton Francis.”

One quick search later and the computer yields no matches, which puts Clint more at ease than Batman. It’s nice to know there’s not another one of himself running around in this dreary universe, but Batman doesn’t seem quite satisfied.

“You don’t know who I am, but you aren’t phased by the cape and the mask,” he rumbles. Batman’s toned down the demon voice to a low growl, but he’s still got a hoarseness that could rival Wolverine. “You’ve seen plenty of our kind before. Who are the heroes of your universe?”

“Well,” Clint says, weighing his options for all of two seconds. Batman still gives him some major heebie-jeebies, and rattling off intel on his teammates might not be the best tactical move, but he needs to earn some trust here, not to mention his Earth has dealt with way worse threats than some guy in a bat suit that spends his nights beating up old-timey gangsters. “That’s kind of a loaded question.”

Batman leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Clint gets the sense that there’s one raised eyebrow behind his cowl.

“You mean you don’t have good guys? Sworn protectors of the common people?”

“Well, when you put it _that_ way,” Clint huffs, because it kinda seems like the guy that lives in a Doctor Doom lair and dresses like a vampire on super serum is accusing _his_ world of too much moral ambiguity. “There’s all the Avengers, obviously. Iron Man, Captain America, Thor, Black Widow. Our roster isn’t really set in stone, you know? And there’s the Young Avengers, the Defenders, the Guardians, the X-Men, the Fantastic Four, A-Force, the Howling Commandos, New Warriors, the Thunderbolts, uh, sometimes. Alpha Flight, if we’re counting Canada. Then there’s-”

“That’s enough,” Batman says, which is probably good because Clint hasn’t even gotten to the spin-offs yet. “No Justice League, then?” Clint snorts.

“That’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“The Avengers?” Batman says flatly. “The Defenders?”

“Well it’s not the Vengeance Guild, is it? It’s not the Group of People Who Defend Things.” There’s a muscle twitching in Batman’s jaw, and Clint remembers a little belatedly that he’s not exactly a welcome guest. “So, um. No overlap, I’m guessing?”

“Not with the names you gave,” Batman says. He pauses, and his next words come out more cautious. “You’ve never met Superman, then? Or Wonder Woman?”

Clint tries really, really hard not to smile, because what is _with_ this universe and names? Something must show on his face, though, because Batman sighs wearily.

“‘Captain America’ and ‘Iron Man’ aren’t better.”

“Yeah, I bet Superman’s name is a holdover from the World War II propaganda machine, and Wonder Woman is just a big fan of Black Sabbath.”

“You haven’t given me your name,” Batman says, more gravel edging into his voice. “What is it, Purple Arrow?”

“That’s just lazy,” Clint says, hopping down from his perch so he can puff out his chest properly. “No, you’re in the presence of Clint Barton, AKA Hawkeye. The world’s greatest marksman. The people’s avenger. The greatest sharpshooter known to man. The-”

“The public knows your identity?”

Clint deflates a little, because he was really just getting warmed up. Batman’s not the most expressive of people, but Clint’s spent enough time around super spies to notice the genuine surprise under his growl.

“Sure.” He gives Batman a one-shouldered shrug. “The public knows the identities of a lot of heroes. Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Bruce Banner… I guess Spider-Man keeps his a secret. I’ve got absolutely no clue who that kid is.”

“You aren’t worried about what villains might do?”

“Not really,” Clint shrugs again. “Secret identities are hard to maintain, and it’s not like I can’t handle myself if a villain shows up in my apartment.”

“What about your family? What if they go after them?” Batman sounds almost accusatory, like he’s been looking for something evil about Clint through the whole conversation and just found it. Clint kind of flails for a moment, and it takes a second for him to realize why the question is so odd to him.

“I don’t- The Avengers are my family. Or, the closest thing I’ve got. If someone tries going after any one of them, well. It wouldn’t work out too well. I’m pretty much as weak as the links get on that team.”

Batman steeples his fingers together like he’s a villain in a Bond movie. The wash of cold blue light from his giant computer screen doesn’t help soften the image. Clint tries not to fidget under his stare, feeling a little like a bug pinned up on a wall.

A moment passes, maybe two, and suddenly something in Batman’s posture shifts. He doesn’t relax exactly, but Clint gets the sense that a judgment has been passed. Something’s been decided.

“It’s almost dawn,” Batman says, and suddenly his voice sounds a hell of a lot more like a normal human being. “You should eat, and rest. We’ll get you back home as soon as we can.”

>>==========>

As it turns out, Batman’s enormous hell cavern is just the basement to a sprawling, gilded mansion.

Batman doesn’t say anything on the way up, and they both pretend not to notice when Clint almost passes out as the elevator shoots upwards. The mansion is still dark, still ominous as fuck, but the shadows thrown around Batman aren’t as terrifying when he’s surrounded by polished hardwood and plush carpets.

Batman leaves Clint in an expansive kitchen without a word, so Clint prays that at least the coffee in this universe is the same, and sets to figuring out the entirely too complex machine on the marble countertop. It’s a mess of buttons and light up touch displays, and Clint’s headache is coming back full force.

“Jarvis?” He calls, just in case. “Friday? Any fancy computer butlers around that can tell me how to work this thing?”

“Tragically, no.” Clint nearly jumps out of his skin at the very human voice, whirling around to see a man standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Uh, Batman?” He’s not the right build, but that’s something that a well-built suit can always remedy. The voice, though. That accent is all wrong.

“Wrong again, I’m afraid.” The man reaches out, and Clint gets about halfway through figuring out how to weaponize a Keurig cup before he realizes the guy is just turning on the light switch. Light floods the kitchen, rudely reminding Clint of his recent head trauma, and he nearly laughs because it hadn’t even occurred to him that Batman’s house would _have_ light switches.

The man crosses the room to the coffee machine as Clint continues to blink the black spots out of his eyes. The machine gurgles to life, and Clint has to keep himself from hugging what he’s now realized is a much older man.

“Hi,” he says when he notices the room has lapsed into silence. “I’m Clint.”

“Alfred Pennyworth,” the man says, starting to pull cups and plates down from the cabinets. “Master Bruce will return shortly, and then I’m afraid you’ll have to meet the rest of the Waynes as well.” He offers Clint a smile over his shoulder. “I hope waffles are acceptable.”

Clint opens his mouth to say that yes, waffles are acceptable, in any universe, probably, but he’s cut off by another person entering the kitchen.

“Spare him the grand tour, Alfred. Our friend here needs food and then rest. Possibly with medical attention in between.”

The man is dressed in a robe and house shoes, like some kind of millionaire heir from the fifties. With the dark, slicked-back hair and classically handsome face, all he’s missing is the cigarette and three future centerfolds hanging off his arms.

“Um,” Clint says. “Batman?” If he asks every guy roaming the mansion halls, eventually he’ll get it right. Right?

“You can call me Bruce. Bruce Wayne.” He’s almost effortlessly charming, all dazzling smiles and sweeping gestures, but Clint didn’t spend the better half of his life among criminals and spies not to notice the way Bruce pauses for a split second to scan his face, checking for a reaction at the name.

“Nice place you’ve got, Bruce,” Clint says. The coffee machine beeps and Alfred hands him a freshly steaming mug. “Excellent butler. Basement could use some work, though.” He blows on his mug, watching the steam swirl outwards. Just the smell of coffee is already easing his headache. “Is it just the two of you?”

Alfred gives an amused sort of hum as he sets about making breakfast. Bruce’s mouth quirks into a smile. “Well-”

“I missed this,” another voice announces, because apparently dramatic entrances are a necessity for living in a mansion. Clint makes a mental note to go easier on Tony next time he requires fanfare for walking into a room. “Good coffee, Alfred’s breakfast.” The newcomer is dazzling in an entirely different way than Bruce, and Clint takes an uncomfortably hot gulp of coffee to hide his blush when bright blue eyes meet his. “Bruce picking up strays.”

“This is Clint,” Bruce explains, settling down at the kitchen island and opening a newspaper. Clint’s not sure if the paper was on the countertop, or if it just came with the outfit. It doesn’t matter, because startlingly attractive mini-Bruce is now offering Clint a hand to shake.

“Dick,” he says, and it’s not the bluntest offer Clint’s ever gotten, but it’s up there.

“Yeah,” Clint says. “What?”

“My name is Dick Grayson,” Dick Grayson says, his friendly expression turning a little concerned. “How hard did he hit you?”

“Who?”

“Bruce. You took a hit, right? Are you okay?” There’s a lot of concern there now. Concerned is a good look for Dick Grayson. He’s got the same blue eyes and jet black hair as Bruce, but Bruce doesn’t make them look nearly as pretty. Maybe if he grew his hair out more. Dick Grayson’s has the kind of hair made for shampoo commercials. It looks almost as soft as Bucky’s does.

Clint realizes with a start that he’s still clasping Dick’s hand, and drops it awkwardly.

“Sorry,” he says, and then clears his throat and tries again. “Sorry. I’m- maybe about to pass out.”

>>==========>

>>==========>

>>==========>

“It’s too early in the morning for cheeseburgers,” Bucky says, glaring down at the diner menu. He’s glad Clint doesn’t have to hear him say it, although if getting in an argument over In-N-Out as breakfast food is the trade-off for knowing Clint is safe, he’d take the heat in an instant.

“In your universe, maybe,” Green Arrow says. He’s still in costume, as is Superman, and their waitress seems to be having a hard time dealing with that. She has to use both hands to steady her coffee pot while Superman beams at her. “What, you have somewhere better to be?”

“Yes, actually,” Bucky growls. Superman seems to be stalling on his promise to take Bucky to his ‘friend.’ Stopping a firefight on the highway is one thing, but Bucky’s pretty sure “cheeseburger breakfast” isn’t a solid excuse in any universe.

“Bucky’s looking for a friend of his,” Superman explains. “A guy that got pulled through a wormhole by some sentient vines.”

“Ah,” Green Arrow says, sipping his coffee contemplatively. He gives their waitress an appreciative wink as she moves on to the next table. “Bats.”

“And associates,” Superman says, and Bucky wonders if glaring at them harder will make his vigilante acquaintances any more coherent. Instead, Green Arrow just knocks their shoulders together.

“Aw, look. He’s pouting.”

“I’m not pouting,” Bucky says, but his voice sounds pissy even to him. He grits his teeth as Green Arrow knocks their shoulders together again. “I’d just like to find my teammate as quickly as possible, and I don’t see how cheeseburgers will accomplish this.”

“If your teammate is half as good in a fight as you are, I’m sure he’s fine.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Bucky says. He’s seen Clint MacGyver a semi-functional bow and arrow out of paperclips and pocket lint when faced with the alternative of actually paying attention in a debrief. He’s pretty sure Clint would find a way to survive in the vacuum of space with just the clothes on his back if he had to. It still doesn’t change the nerves that have been buzzing in his stomach ever since he watched Clint tumble into the black void. “I’d still prefer it if I could see him for myself.”

“Two’s a couple,” Superman says. Bucky blinks, feeling the color rise in his cheeks.

“What?”

“Two’s a couple, not a team. How many more ‘teammates’ do you have?”

Oh.

“Two on the other side of the portal. More could get called in, I guess.”

“But just you went through after him?”

“It was a tactical decision,” Bucky snaps. He’s not sure why he feels so defensive. He’d probably be asking the same questions if the roles were reversed, and not nearly as politely.

“I think it was a good call,” Green Arrow interrupts, not even being subtle about defusing the situation. “You got me out of a pickle, anyways.”

“I’ve faced worse than Deathstroke in my sleep,” Bucky says, still more aggressive than he should be towards his gracious interdimensional hosts. Green Arrow opens his mouth to respond, but he’s cut off by a loud tap on the diner window.

There’s a girl standing outside, knocking impatiently on the glass. She has loose blonde hair and an outfit that looks like the skimpy Halloween store version of Superman’s onesie. Bucky would peg her for a fangirl, but Superman just raises an eyebrow at her through the glass.

“Kara?” he says, at a normal volume.

“You aren’t busy, are you?” The fact that there’s an external wall between her and Superman doesn’t seem to be bothering Kara at all. Bucky can just make out her voice through the glass, but the way Green Arrow is rolling his eyes tells Bucky he’s not in the enhanced hearing club. “There’s trouble on Stryker’s Island.”

“Luthor?” Superman asks. Kara shakes her head.

“Not exactly. I’ll explain on the way.”

“Wait,” Bucky says, because he’s not wasting any more time on his mission. Especially not alone with Green Arrow. “What about finding Clint?” Superman looks apologetic, and Bucky’s stomach drops.

“I can take him,” Green Arrow says, and if the stakes were any lower, Bucky would just resign himself to a couple more hours sitting right here in the diner. “I’ll call in the gang. I haven’t been to Gotham in a while.”

“Great!” Superman says, clapping his hands together like that settles it. Bucky buries his face in his hands.

“We can take the Arrowcar!” Green Arrow says, and Bucky spreads his fingers apart enough to glare at Superman.

“I want you to know that you’ve made an interdimensional enemy today.”

>>==========>

>>==========>

>>==========>

Clint wakes up in a bed.

It’s a very comfy bed, and he almost considers rolling over and going right back to sleep. Something’s nagging at the back of his brain, though, telling him there are things that need doing and the bed must be left to do them.

He cracks his eyes open, wincing at the sunlight streaming through the blinds. There’s a girl sitting on the end of his bed, crouched like a cat. Or a gargoyle.

“Hi,” Clint croaks. His voice sounds like sandpaper, and he wonders how long he’s been out. She tilts her head, short black hair falling in front of her eyes. She doesn’t seem to blink quite enough for a normal human being, and Clint squirms a little under her gaze. Is she a ghost? Batman seems like the kind of guy who would live in a haunted mansion.

“You haven’t missed waffles yet,” she says finally, and Clint’s stomach growls as if on command. There’s something a little odd about the way the girl speaks. It’s not an accent Clint’s ever heard. He’s actually not sure if it’s an accent at all. Clint realizes that whoever brought him to the bed didn’t take out his aids. His ears feel a little gummy from sleeping with them in, but he’ll be damned if he takes his aids out when there are undead spirits on the loose.

The girl gets up, apparently done with the conversation, and heads for the door. Clint allows himself a groan as he rolls out of bed. His head is pounding, but there’s an unfinished cup of coffee in the kitchen with his name on it, and a minor concussion has never come between him and his caffeine before.

The girl drifts through the halls, not bothering to check if Clint is following or not. She probably hears him plodding along behind her, anyway. The place is about as creaky as an old haunted mansion should be, and each squeaky floorboard Clint steps on makes her silent glide all the more impressive. Either that, or it just further supports his hypothesis that she’s actually a phantom.

The mansion is kind of enormous, even now that morning light is creeping through the blinds and banishing whatever lurks in the shadows. Clint never quite got the difference between old money and new. To him, a big fancy house was a big fancy house, nevermind what Tony or Kate said. Now, though, stepping across carpet that seems like it belongs in a museum and eyeing floor-to-ceiling portraits that might actually predate the fall of Rome, Clint thinks he’s starting to get it. Bruce’s mansion feels like a different world, made for the dinner parties of elite secret societies, and full of rooms where men in tuxedos puff cigars in wealthy silence. This is not the lodgings of an ex-carnie thief with a shaky grasp on the timeline of the Roman Empire.

“When do we get to the family crypt?” Clint asks, because if the basement of the manor is just a neverending cavern, he shudders to imagine where Batman’s ancestors have been laid to rest. The phantom doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even turn around. “Are you going to kill me? Where are we going?” Still no answer. They pass another gilded frame, and Clint almost reaches out to run his hands over the placard before thinking better of it. That’s how you turn your peaceful ghost guide into a poltergeist. Clint wishes the carpet was dustier so he could check if she’s leaving footprints.

Ghost or not, their final destination turns out to be the kitchen. Clint can smell waffles and bacon from the other end of the hallway, and he hears voices as they get closer.

Bruce and Dick are still seated, chatting amiably as Alfred works the waffle iron. Clint’s coffee is gone, but Alfred places a fresh mug in front of him as soon as he settles down at the kitchen island. He nods his thanks, taking a sip as Bruce turns to him.

“Feeling better?”

Clint hums an affirmative. It’s not the first time he’s blacked out mid-conversation, and it sure as fuck won’t be the last.

“How long was I out?”

“Only a couple hours,” Dick says. “Alfred decided to turn breakfast into brunch so you wouldn’t miss out.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s been a long night.” Dick nods, offering Clint a look of sympathy.

“That’s sort of how we operate.”

As if on cue, a teenage boy looking approximately like death stumbles into the kitchen, shuffling immediately towards the coffee machine. Dick blinks at him, like this is a surprise, although both Alfred and Bruce pointedly continue on with their mornings.

“Why are _you_ here?” Dick asks, and the kid spends about a minute stabbing his finger ineffectually at the coffee machine’s touch display before he mumbles out an answer.

“‘M’not,” he says, but only once Alfred has come to his aid and gotten the machine going again. “I’m at Travis Lee’s house. Working on a class project.”

“Oh really?” Dick’s voice is all amusement.

“As far as any commercial phone tracking software can tell,” the kid says, like that’s a normal sentence people can string together while looking like a sleep-deprived zombie. He finally cracks his eyes open long enough to acknowledge Clint’s presence. “Who are you?”

“Clint,” Clint says. He doubts the guy is in any state to handle the full story right now. “Are you guys all… cousins?” He can’t really work the age differences out in his head, but the kid has the same black hair and blue eyes as Bruce and Dick. Bruce and Dick, who both chuckle at the question like it’s a ridiculous idea.

“You should take that as a compliment, Tim,” Dick says, and Tim ignores him in favor of inhaling the scent of coffee wafting from his new cup. “No,” he turns to Clint then, still looking entertained by the concept. “We’re definitely not related.”

“Oh,” Clint says, because that doesn’t sound right. He wonders if everyone in this universe just looks vaguely similar. He tries to remember if any of the gangsters were blond. Is he just a freak of nature here? Should he dye his hair to fit the noir color scheme?

“When’s Steph coming down?” Tim asks. He’s downed half his mug of coffee and looks marginally more alive.

“Steph’s here?” Dick asks, and Clint has to wonder what life must be like living in a house so big you can miss your own family members. Or, whatever these guys are. Tim shrugs.

“Alfred’s making waffles, so I figured. He only does that when Steph’s here.”

“Alfred can make waffles for lots of reasons. He could be making them because _I’m_ here.” There’s a note of hurt in Dick’s voice.

“Nah,” Tim says.

“These are waffles for Steph,” Ghost girl confirms. She’s perched on the counter next to Alfred, sneaking pieces of food every time his back is turned. Tim aims a nod of acknowledgment at her.

“Cass gets it. Steph is his new favorite child, right Alfred?”

“The identity of my favorite child is between me and Miss Stephanie,” Alfred says, and if this isn’t sibling banter, Clint’s really not sure _what_ the fuck is happening.

“I knew it!” someone shouts from the doorway, and Clint turns to watch dramatic entrance number four make her way into the kitchen. Steph is considerably brighter-eyed and bushier-tailed than her non-siblings, and Clint notes with relief that she is very blonde.

“Batman,” Clint stage whispers as Alfred starts to serve breakfast. “Why are there so many children in your house?” Cass follows Alfred dutifully, her arms stacked high with plates that she has no qualms stealing from. Clint carefully relieves her of an untouched stack of waffles.

“Careful,” Bruce answers, winking conspiratorially. “These children could beat you in a fight on your best day.” Clint snorts.

“Doubtful.” Something about Bruce’s words catches in Clint’s head. “Wait,” He says as a thought clicks into place. “Do these children fight crime?” Bruce blinks at him.

“We’re not children,” Steph says defensively. Clint rolls his eyes.

“Uh huh. I’m sure you’re all of legal drinking age. You want more syrup for your waffles?” he pushes the syrup towards her plate. Steph glares at him but picks up the bottle anyways.

“I _do_ want more syrup for my waffles, but that doesn’t mean you have a valid point.”

“They’re skilled fighters, and they understand the risks of the job,” Bruce says, staring at Clint. There’s a heavy finality to his words, like that should be the end of the conversation.

“They’re children.”

“They’re still in the room,” Tim adds, stealing a bite of Steph’s waffles. Cass is staring at Clint in her solemn, unblinking way, so he turns to her instead.

“Okay, you understand the risks, then. Sure. What _are_ the risks?”

“Death,” Cass says simply, which, yeah.

“We all face risks, Clint,” Bruce says. “What do you do with the younger people that want to follow in your footsteps? Turn them away? Ground them? Kids are stubborn. You can’t talk them down from something unless they let you. They’ll always fight their own battles. You might as well give them the tools to win.”

“Nobody wins in a war that children have to fight,” Clint says, and he’s outnumbered here but something about the condescension in Bruce’s voice has set his blood boiling. “You risk a lot worse than just death.”

“The world’s falling apart,” Tim chimes in again. “Kids live in it too. Why should adults be the only ones allowed to save it?”

“Because kids are who we’re saving it _for,_ ” Clint says, and he knows it’s a losing battle. “Knowing the risks is nothing next to experiencing them.”

“There are no younger sidekicks in your universe?” Batman asks. “No protégés? No trainees?”

“Not ones that are _children._ Or, not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Not a single one?”

“There was one, sure,” Clint spits out. Bruce waves his hand, like his point is proven. End of discussion, but Clint’s not going to leave it at that. “I said _was._ Bucky Barnes, heroic teen sidekick to Captain America himself. They fought side by side through World War II. Led us to victory and everything.”

“And I’m sure the death of one soldier didn’t outweigh the people he saved.”

“Oh, I never said he died.” There’s an uncomfortable hush falling over the room, but Clint plows right through it. “He was blown up, kidnapped, tortured, mind-controlled. Forced to kill for the side he always fought against. They stripped him down to nothing, kept him on ice in between missions so he couldn’t rebuild his humanity in the downtime. He spent seventy years as a puppet. He was a trained dog they sicced on anyone they wanted. We only got him back when they made the mistake of sending him to kill Captain America himself. If there’s one hill Steve Rogers will die on, it’s that no single person should have to be sacrificed for the good of everyone else.” There’s actually a lot of hills Steve Rogers will die on. Clint could name a whole mountain range after Steve Rogers’ opinions, but Bruce doesn’t need to know that. “If kids fight so often in this universe, I’m sure they die often, too. You’re telling me there’s not a single one you would save if you could? You can’t think of one kid who you would’ve turned away if you knew what their fate would be?”

Clint can feel it when he strikes a nerve, the air in the kitchen turning like a flash freeze. Tim suddenly looks wide awake, and Bruce’s jaw is set. Dick looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Clint feels his words hanging heavy in the air, and suddenly the waffles don’t seem worth finishing.

“I’m, uh. I’m going to get some air.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, sorry to end it on that note. The next chapter will feature the arrowfam and way more winterhawk. @felicitysmoakqueen I actually started watching Arrow just so I could figure out how to put your girl in there and. I. I don't. _like_ it. Idk. I think I'm just too attached to comics Ollie, and all my fave side characters are Different and idk. But you're right, Felicity is the best, and I'm still going to try and put her in somehow :D

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at spidergwenstefani! I take requests always and I love just talking about my bois so don't be shy. Comments and Kudos give me life <3


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